His Private Hell - Chapter 62: Chapter 62

Eella woke to a whisper of movement—barely perceptible. The compound was dead quiet, electric tension thick enough to taste. She pressed a hand to her chest where the USB drive had burned her palm last night. She’d kept it inside her coat pocket, only moments ago. But now… it was gone.
She sat up in the narrow bed—metal frame, thin mattress—and listened. A soft click echoed outside. The door creaked inward.
Garrison stepped in, coat still on, rain-slick hair plastered to his forehead. He didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything. Instead, he crossed the room with that slow purpose that always hit her like gravity.
He stopped before the bed. She met his eyes. Their distance stunned her—the man she loved and feared, caught between triumph and terror.
He knelt and pulled the USB drive from under her pillow. He held it gently, as though he’d found a wounded animal. His thumb brushed the imprint of her name she’d etched weeks ago.
“Are you ready?” he asked softly.
She swallowed. “No.”
His face darkened with something raw. “Good.”
He stood, stepping away.
Eella followed. In the dim hallway, the lights flickered—off, on, off. Their shadows merged and split against concrete walls. There was no warmth here, just cold surfaces and colder secrets.
He led her to a metal staircase winding upward. “We need to close the loop,” he said.
She leaned against him, her body wanting to unravel. She hated that he could pull her with him just by breathing close.
They reached a heavy steel door at the top. He used a key card. It hissed open. Inside: a laboratory from her nightmares. Cables snaked across the floor. Monitors glowed. And in the center… the cradle was gone.
In its place stood a single chair—the kind Garrison had once sat in while watching his victims. Its leather was worn, straps dangling like silent threats.
“What’s this?” she whispered.
He didn’t smile. He looked tired. “Redemption.”
She stared. “You’re offering redemption?”
He nodded once. Quiet as absolution. “It’s time you decide who you are.”
He gestured to the chair. “Sit.”
She didn’t move. Tears stung her eyes—not fear, not frustration. Something harder to label.
He stepped closer. Placed the USB drive on the desk beside it. “You saw footage last night. You felt the transfer. Now I’ll show you what it does—to both of us.”
She hated the way excitement flickered beneath her fear. The absurdity of loving a man who’d built a torture chamber in his castle…
But the drive might hold the key to everything. To who she was, who she wasn’t… who they were.
She inhaled. And sat.
He closed the distance, sliding the drive into a slot below the screen.
Data transferred. Systems whined. The chair hummed to life.
Eella braced herself. Garrison pressed buttons, initiating the process. Lights pulsed. She closed her eyes. Music—Darcie’s lullaby—crooned quietly in the speakers.
He knelt beside the chair. Hand on her knee. “Remember who you are.”
She lifted her head. “I remember.”
The hum intensified. Panic licked at her skin. A heat she couldn’t swallow rolled through her veins. She clenched the armrests. And the screen flickered to life.
A live feed from the penthouse.
She saw her reflection in a window, intertwined with Garrison. The moment looped. And beside them… Darcie.
Only it was not Darcie. It was her.
It took her breath away.
She looked to Garrison.
He whispered, “You’re doing it.”
She was both inside the cradle and outside it. Both victim and observer. Garrison and Darcie’s faces overlaid. Skin bending against screen.
“No,” she whispered. “This is… wrong.”
He pressed a pause.
She stared. Tears blurred her sight. She recognized faces… memories implanted deep.
He stood. “You can stop it.”
She shook. But the cradle’s lights winked, not waiting.
She remembered his words: choose. close the loop.
She exhaled. “What’s the wrong loop?”
He took her hand. “Let her die.”
Her heart stopped.
He cupped her jaw. “Or you.”
She pressed a trembling hand to the cradle’s touchscreen to shut it down.
It ignored her.
The chair’s lights burned brighter.
Another long moment of silence—a breath held in suspended flame.
Then Garrison’s lips were on hers. Desperate. Soaking her in chaos.
“You’re mine,” he hissed, fingers tightening on her thigh.
Pain exploded. Not physical. A fracture deep in her soul.
Her scream ripped free as the cradle activated, and the chair’s arms wrapped around her, cool leather biting her wrists and ankles. The music stopped. Only silence remained.
And then…
A voice—hers but not hers—whispered: I know your poison.
Eella’s body convulsed.
Inside her head, another presence awoke.
Darcie. Or something worse.
Her eyes rolled back.
When they snapped open again, black liquid pooled at the corner of her eye—
And her voice came out smooth, calmed, menacing:
“Hello, Garrison.”
Nothing had prepared him for that.
And nothing would ever be the same.